


skeletons

by snowy_writes



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, canonical child abuse (only mentioned tho nothing graphic), the usual credence related warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowy_writes/pseuds/snowy_writes
Summary: "He does not move, or shout, or cry. His demeanor betrays no fear, no anger, no grief. On the surface, he is calm. Collected. Composed.He thinks he just might lose his mind."In which Credence encounters a boggart, and is utterly unprepared.





	

**Author's Note:**

> based on this post: https://phantasmiicparade.tumblr.com/post/155869453312/we-need-more-credence-encounters-a-boggart-fics

He does not move, or shout, or cry. His demeanor betrays no fear, no anger, no grief. On the surface, he is calm. Collected. Composed.

He thinks he just might lose his mind.

There is a scream in the bottom of his belly, primal and feral and mindless — it _rings_ , loud and deafening, it claws its way up his lungs and _stops,_ just below his throat, clogged by years of repression and control. His lips, pressed together into a thin line, are numb. Tingling. Cold. Through the silent noise in his mind, a single thought makes its way to the surface: There was never really a way out.

“Credence.” His mother speaks, mild and soft and promising penance. “You have disobeyed me.”

His face is a bloodless color, his hands are cold and shaking. Years he’d spent molding himself anew and finding a way to _be_ , to exist outside of mother’s constraints, to stand without shame of who he was, and now, at the sight of her, Credence Barebone finds himself shifting swiftly back into place: Head down, shoulders hunched, his breathing slowed to near stillness. He does not think how she could be here, now, alive and unchanged after all these years. He cannot think, as he hears the soft patting of her footsteps, slow and unhurried, the smooth leather of a belt shifting in her hands.

“I’m sorry.” He says, because that’s what he always did.

“Hold out your hands.” She says, because that’s what she always did, too.

He does. It feels natural, fitting, like a worn piece of clothing: His hands held out in submission, his head bowed down in shame. Self-loathing he’d been chipping away at for years now rears its head, shame and guilt and self-hatred, and then —

_“Ridikkulus!”_

The booming voice cuts through the air, Credence stares, uncomprehending, unseeing, as Mary Lou Barebone turns to smoke and swiftly fades away. The sight is replaced by a set of dark eyes, concerned, intense, piercing — he is vaguely aware of the stream of questions as two palms rest on either side of his face, a thumb rubbing at his cheek, a forehead touching his own. Percy. Percy is here. His knees give out from beneath him.

The man lowers himself with Credence, slows him down as he drops, holds him close and does not let go as the tears stream down his cheeks and the whimpers turn to sobs. It will be alright now, he whispers, it will be alright. Percy’s here.


End file.
